The room was hushed in silence as Harvey's tear-stained face was bowed beside his friend. He spoke no word, and no touch of tenderness was felt except the slow tightening of his arm about the furrowed neck, holding the quivering form close in strong and silent fondness. David spoke at length. "I want you to come along with me, Harvey."
"Where?" Harvey asked in a startled voice.
"Oh, not there," said David, smiling. "You thought I meant the long, long road. No, not that; but I'm goin' to the communion, Harvey—that's what I meant—I'm goin' to join the church."
"I'm glad," said Harvey after a long stillness.
"I nearly joined once afore," David went on. "I reckon you remember when I had that meetin' with the elders—kind o' run agin a snag, I did. An' mebbe I ain't much worthier yet—but I see it different. I ain't much of a Christian, I know—but I'm a kind of a sinner saved by grace. An' I'd kind o' like to own up in front of everybody afore—afore it's too late," he said, his voice almost inaudible.
"When?" asked Harvey.
"Next Sunday," answered David. "But I didn't go up agin the elders this time, mind you—I wouldn't," he went on stoutly. "It seems to me a fellow ain't no more called on to tell a lot of elders—human elders—about them things, an' his soul, than he is to tell 'em about his love-makin'; so I jest went to Dr. Fletcher, an' I told him what I felt about—about Christ—an' I said I felt like I'd had a bid from some One higher up. An' Dr. Fletcher said no elder wasn't to have a look-in this time. So I'm goin', Harvey—an' it'd be an awful comfort if you an' me went together. It's quite a spell since you was there, ain't it, Harvey?"
The fire had gone out upon the hearth. And Harvey spoke never a word amid the thickening gloom.
XXXIV
THE OVERFLOWING HOUR